Through the Years
by MistWraith
Summary: Complete: He learned early you never seem to get what you want. The dysfunctional Winchester life and family dynamics viewed through the lens of Dean's birthdays. T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I keep checking, but it still doesn't belong to me.

**A/N**: A look at Dean and the dysfunctional Winchester life and family dynamic through key birthdays along the way. It's completed, just being edited, which is why it's being split into probably three parts; everything should be up in a week. I'm promising a happy ending! All reviews and critiques cheerfully accepted!

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**THROUGH THE YEARS**

**_January 24, 1984_**

When Dean turned five, he learned you don't always get what you ask for on your birthday. When Mommy was alive, she and Daddy would always manage to find out just what Dean really, really wanted for his birthday. Sometimes they would just ask him, but sometimes, through some Mommy and Daddy magic, they would just _know_, and even though he would never remember actually telling them. Mommies and Daddies were really smart.

This year, he didn't ask Daddy for anything. He hadn't talked to Daddy since the night Mommy went away. He wanted to, because Daddy always looked so sad now and even sadder when Dean wouldn't speak to him, and because Dean was scared a lot and he wanted Daddy to make him less afraid. But he just couldn't. He couldn't talk to anyone except Sammy.

And there was no point asking him, was there?

He didn't talk to God at first, either. Mommy always told him about the angels that watched over them. Dean would ask God why the angel had been asleep when the bad thing had killed Mommy, but he never got an answer. Then he decided maybe it was _his_ fault, that he hadn't been good enough and Mommy was taken away to punish him. So he worked really hard since Mommy left to prove he was a good boy. He did everything Daddy and Daddy's friend Mike and Mrs. Mike told him to do. He took care of Sammy because he had promised Mommy before Sammy was born he would be the best brother _ever_ and good boys don't break their promises. Besides, he really did love Sammy, even if Sammy could be pretty stinky a lot of the time and even when he cried a lot.

Then, a week before his birthday, he talked to God again. He said he had been as good as he knew how to be and he was sorry if he had done something to make Mommy go away. He told God how much he missed Mommy and how much he loved and needed her, and how sad Daddy was all the time and that even little Sammy seemed unhappy so much, and he said he didn't want anything else on his birthday, just for Mommy to come back. Please.

On his birthday, he woke extra early, too excited to sleep, and he uncurled from around Sammy--because he wasn't going to let anything bad take Sammy away, too, so he slept in Sammy's crib--and he ran downstairs, calling for Mommy. But she wasn't there. Still, it was early, and maybe God wasn't up yet. So, he waited. All through the day. Daddy gave him a toy, and Mike and Mrs. Mike gave him a present and a cake, and he smiled and nodded, but all the time he kept looking for Mommy to come back.

By the time Daddy made him go up to bed--even though he said he shouldn't, he had to wait and didn't Daddy understand?--and he lay there, holding Sammy, he realized God hadn't listened to him, hadn't cared that he had been really, really good. God didn't care that he and Daddy were sad or that they missed Mommy. Mommy had been wrong: There were no angels watching over you.

Birthdays suck. And so did God.

As he lay there, warm tears sliding down his cheeks, he knew there was nothing and no one looking after you. He would never ask God for anything again.

* * *

_**January 24, 1986**_

When Dean turned seven, the Winchesters had been staying in a small town in Ohio. There had been a lot of bad things, Daddy had said, not just in that one place, but all around and Daddy could hunt them from one base (as Daddy had called the five-room house he had rented for them). Dean thought Daddy really stayed because of the old woman with the strange eyes. She had stared at him when Daddy had gone to see her for the first time, looking deeply into Dean's eyes until he wanted to run and hide behind Daddy.

But Winchesters didn't run, Daddy said (thought sometimes it _seemed_ they did, when Daddy would toss everything into the car, hustling Sammy and him into the backseat, and racing away from wherever they had been staying), so Dean had raised his chin higher and stared back defiantly, even if his insides felt a little bit like the Jell-O Mommy used to make for him. After a few minutes, the old woman had surprised him by laughing and poking him in the tummy.

"Quite the little warrior," she'd said. "A good thing. You will need to be. Your road will be long, and often dark and hard." She had touched his cheek. "Hold fast, and you will find the way, child."

Dean had felt all shivery and Daddy looked at her in that angry way Daddy looked at most things since Mommy had died. Dean had never been taken to see her again. But Daddy had spent most of his time between hunts there, studying in the dusty old books. Daddy said the old woman had a lot to teach him.

Dean just thought she was evil.

Everything else had been good, maybe the best it had been since Mommy had died. For one thing, they had been here since the school year had started and for the first time in a long time, Dean had made friends, had felt he fit in. In particular, Tommy Bristow, four months older, one inch taller, gap-toothed and always grinning, had decided Dean was his new best friend. Dean, with two-year old Sammy in tow, ended up spending a lot of time at Tommy's house.

Tommy's mother had eyed him and Sammy uncertainly the first time they showed up at her door, but when she heard--because Sammy could _never_ stop talking--that their mother was dead and they traveled a lot because of "Daddy's job," she had smiled and made tutting noises. And Sammy had grinned back gleefully and babbled on, and Mrs. Bristow had just seemed to melt into a puddle of goo.

She hadn't warmed as quickly to the warier Dean, who had learned over the last two years not to trust people too quickly--because they wouldn't understand about the nasty, dark things or why Daddy had to be away so much, and then there would be trouble--until Dean had told her Sammy would be with him when he came over "'cause Sammy's my _sponsibility_ and I take care of him, 'cause that's what big brothers do." Then she had sniffled and handed him a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Mrs. Bristow made _great_ cookies.

That was months ago and now Dean, with his Sammy-shadow, was practically a fixture at the Bristow house. When she had found out it was Dean's seventh birthday on January 24th, only two days after Tommy's, and that Daddy would be too busy to do anything special, Mrs. Bristow had announced she would give a joint party for Dean and Tommy, and she had invited lots of kids over.

Dean had pretended it was no big deal, but inside he was as excited about it as Sammy--then again, what didn't get Sammy excited?--who burbled on about "skweam and pwesents and games" (Dean was rapidly despairing of _ever_ getting his younger brother to add the letter "r" to his vocabulary, but Daddy just smiled and said Sammy was only two and Dean shouldn't worry unless Sammy was still saying "pwesents" when he was thirty). It was his first real birthday since the bad thing had taken Mommy.

Dean had fretted for a while, knowing he wouldn't be able to get Tommy a gift. Daddy had simply shaken his head and said, "Sorry, kiddo. Things are pretty tight right now." And Dean knew it was the truth. Sometimes Daddy would pretend he'd already eaten but Dean knew better, knew there just wasn't enough.

Somehow, though, Mrs. Bristow had figured out what was worrying him and had smiled and whispered, "I know you probably want to get Tommy a gift for his birthday and he wants to get one for you, but I thought it would be best if neither of you brought anything for each other. Is that okay with you?

Dean nodded with a tremendous sense of relief, thinking Mrs. Bristow was _really_ smart and _really_ nice.

The day before the party, Dean was both happy and sad, though he wasn't quite sure just how that was possible. He only knew he was thrilled to have a real birthday party again, but very sad Mommy wouldn't be there.

Sammy had no such reservations and he had been bouncing on his toes all day. Of course, bouncing _was_ Sammy's usual approach to things. He bounced off beds, walls, sidewalks and stairs (which sometimes led to minor disasters). Dean was willing to admit to himself Sammy was possibly a bit clumsy, but he tended to get fierce if anyone else laughed at the youngest Winchester.

Dean had finally gotten Sammy to get into bed and actually _stay_ there, through the ruse of telling his two-year old brother that the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner tomorrow would come, because tomorrows were just sneaky like that. He was getting into his own pajamas when he heard the phone ring, once, twice, before he could hear his father's voice rumble, "Winchester." He could never say how he knew, he just _did_, and he was suddenly sure he would never get to the party.

A few moments later, his father appeared in the bedroom door looking, Dean thought, a bit guilty.

"Dean, wake up Sammy and start packing. We're leaving here tonight."

Dean just stared. "Tonight? But, Daddy, the birthday party is tomorrow!"

His father shifted his weight slightly, still looking guilty. "I know, kiddo, and I'm sorry, but all the research paid off and a lead came up. It's going to take a lot of time to follow it. I can't leave you guys alone here that long, even if I were sure I'd be coming back. And I don't think we will be."

It was as if he had been hit in the stomach. Dean suddenly found it hard to breathe. Not come back? But he had been _happy_ here. He'd had friends, _special_ friends like Tommy. And a party, and, and …they just _couldn't_ go!

By the time Dean had finished his protest, he was blinking back tears, because tears are for babies and he was _seven_ (since yesterday, anyway). He could see the exact moment his father's guilt rolled into annoyance, which was just one step away from anger.

"That's enough, Dean!" Daddy said sharply. "Stop acting like a baby. That's okay for Sammy; he's two, but I won't accept it from you anymore. I need to be able to count on you!"

Dean struggled with his emotions, caught between the child he was and the man he was to become. The man won, and somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut forever on Dean's childhood.

Squaring his shoulders, his eyes now dry, he said softly, "You can always count on me, Dad." Because only little boys said "Daddy."

His father smiled and said, "That's my man." But when Dad turned back to study the road, visible out of Dean's bedroom window, Dean thought he caught a glimpse of shame and sorrow in his father's eyes.

Later, Dean didn't look as they passed Tommy's house. He had learned a valuable lesson. Never again would he open up to the strangers they would briefly live amongst. Never again would he make friends of outsiders. Never again would he set himself up to be hurt. Or hope for something outside of what hunting would allow.

'Cause the only people he would ever be able to count on were Dad and Sammy. He closed his eyes and ignored the treacherous whisper in the back of his mind, _But what if they leave you, too?"_

He would never forget again: Birthdays suck. And maybe life, too.

**A/N**: I should have part 2 up in a day or two.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. No money. Please don't sue

**A/N**: Here are a couple of birthdays in the middle years. Things aren't getting much better yet! Please read and review.

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_**January 24, 1990**_

When Dean turned eleven, he had yet to emerge from the shadows that had engulfed him since the greatest and most terrible failure of his young life. The shadows of his fear for his family in general and Sammy in particular, and the shadows of his father's disapprobation.

John Winchester had never spoken of that night again but Dean had not needed to hear the words aloud to know what his father was saying; it was there in every disapproving glance: "I told you not to leave the room, to watch out for Sammy. What the hell were you thinking, Dean?"

_I wasn't thinking, Dad. I was crawling the walls and you weren't back and Sam was asleep and I just had to get out of the room!_

And he had been wrong and stupid and selfish and…_I know better now. I'll never make that mistake again. I'll never disobey an order again, I swear._

Because his father _did_ know what needed to be done. And when he didn't listen to his dad, when he went off on his own, everyone was at risk. But most of all, Sammy.

And it was his _job_ to protect Sammy. He knew that. He'd _always_ known that, even before Dad said so. And what had he done? He'd left Sammy alone, he'd walked out on his responsibility, on his _job_, and Sammy had almost _died_. He didn't blame his father for not wanting to look at him; he didn't want to look at himself in the mirror, either.

But…it was his birthday and he'd hoped that maybe, just maybe, his father had forgiven him enough to acknowledge the day, but John Winchester had left for a hunt yesterday and wasn't back, wouldn't be back for a few days at least. Dad hadn't said anything to him before he left except for giving instructions and there had been no call today. No surprise gift left for him. Nothing.

He should have known better, though. Pastor Jim gave a sermon once—he and Sammy had been staying there for a couple of weeks while Dad was off hunting with Joshua and Caleb—about the quality of forgiveness and how important it was. John Winchester, on the other hand, believed no lessons were learned if mistakes were forgiven. Dean understood that, accepted it, because his father was trying to keep them safe.

So…it was okay that Dad hadn't done anything for his birthday, really. It _was_. It was stupid and childish to care about stuff like this.

Because, after all, birthdays suck.

* * *

_**January 24, 1993**_

When Dean turned fourteen, the flavor of the day was panic. Dad had gone out after a wendigo two days earlier. The morning of the 24th, well before the sun had even considered peeking over the horizon, Dean had been awakened by the rumble of the Impala pulling up to the isolated cabin Dad had rented for the week. He had been sleeping lightly, in full protector mode and already concerned about his father, and the familiar growl of the car had brought him to alertness. When the cessation of engine sounds was not followed immediately by the familiar creak of the Impala's door as it opened and the heavy slam as it closed, he was out of bed in a flash and slipping on his sneakers, careful for all his haste not to wake Sammy, who was sleeping the sleep of the protected.

A luxury Dean had not had since he was four years, ten months old.

Racing outside, he could see a figure sitting inside the car, behind the steering wheel. Ice ran through his veins; he _knew_ something was wrong. Dad would never just sit there, knowing Dean would be worrying until he walked through the door. Dean ran over, grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. His father was leaning back in the seat, his face pinched and drawn.

The closed eyes opened and John Winchester's head turned slightly toward his elder son. He gave Dean a weak smile. "Hey, kiddo. Glad you're up. We have a slight problem." Then he passed out.

The fourteen-years-old-as-of-one-hour-ago sucked in a breath and bit his lip, a surge of fear going through him. Glancing down to where his father's hand lay, he could see a large--and growing larger--red stain was spreading across John's stomach and side. Dean had been taught some field medicine, starting when he was seven, but he knew instinctively this was beyond his ability to handle. He had to get his father to a hospital.

The cabin had no phone, and Dean had discovered yesterday that the cell phone Dad had left with them would not get a signal in this remote location. He would have to drive his father down to the clinic he remembered seeing as they passed through the small town of Farnsberg on their way to the cabin. It wouldn't be the first time he had driven--John had considered that part of his training--but it would be the first time he had done it without his father awake and ready to grab the wheel if the need arose, and the first time he had driven at night. Not to mention, the first time he had ever tackled anything as dangerous as the mountain road they had traversed on the way up to the cabin.

He gritted his teeth and forced the fear back, behind the walls where he pushed every emotion that had threatened to overwhelm him since that terrible day in Lawrence, Kansas. Where all his fears and self-doubts and hurts and needs and wants--all the things his life no longer allowed him--were hidden away. Behind walls that grew increasingly high and thick.

He knew they probably would not be returning to the cabin, as there were only two days left on the rental anyway. He ran back in the house, shouting for his brother as he went.

"Sammy, get up! We have to go! Sammy!" He raced into the small back bedroom he and his brother shared.

Sammy was poking his head up from under the covers, sleepy eyes blinking, his mop of hair flaring out in every direction. "Dean?" he asked, only half-awake. "What's wrong?"

"It's Dad, Sammy. He's back but he got hurt. We have to get him to the hospital. I don't think we'll be able to come back, so we need to pack up everything really fast. You start getting stuff into the duffel bags, okay? I'm gonna try to get something onto Dad's wound." He noticed Sam staring at him with wide, frightened eyes and he carefully modulated his tone. "It'll be okay, Sammy; we just need to get Dad some help, is all. Now, go on."

Sam gulped then set his lips in a tight line and nodded his head, sending shaggy locks into his eyes. Then he scrambled out of bed and began to pull his duffel out from under the bed. Dean smiled and gave his little brother a reassuring hug, before running into the bathroom and rummaging through the medical kit Dad had left there. John Winchester had been pounding the basics of field medicine into Dean from the time Dean was five, and the newly-turned fourteen-year old could stitch up a wound with no little skill. This time, though, he was going to leave that part to the clinic, as the wounds were serious enough to need more than just a few stitches.

Flying back out to the car, noting with approval that Sammy already had his duffel packed and was halfway finished with Dean's, he pushed his father's hands away from the massive tear, liberally sprayed in a bottled antiseptic--wincing when his father gasped and arched away from the pain--then he packed the wound tightly with gauze pads and placed a large adhesive bandage over it all. He patted his father on the shoulder, muttered that he was going back to see how Sammy was doing, then he raced back into the house.

Sam had both his and Dean's duffels sitting side by side, and was attempting to drag the John's now-packed duffel over to the other two. "Good work, Sammy," Dean said. He could see the worry in Sam's wide eyes and he ruffled his brother's always too long hair. "He'll be okay as soon as we get him to the clinic. You'll see."

Fortunately, his father had taken the primary weapons bag with him and it was already in the car. Dean grabbed the weaponry that John had left with him for the boys' protection. Starting for the car with them and two of the duffel bags, one over each shoulder, he glanced back and told Sam to do a run-through of the cabin, to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything. When he came back for the last duffel, Sam was standing there with a few odd items in his hands. Dean nodded and sent him off to the car.

He was about to start out when he realized that two young boys arriving at the clinic with an incapacitated father and no other relative to call would end up with Social Services being sent for. With no cell phone reception here, he couldn't do anything about it now, but he would have to place a call to Pastor Jim once at the clinic. Blue Earth was only about four hours away; Pastor Jim had been friends with John Winchester almost since the latter had started hunting and the boys loved him. He would help, Dean _knew_ it.

He just had to.

He bit his lip and took a deep breath. He didn't want to scare Sammy any more than the nine-year old already was, and watching his older brother fall apart would probably do it. He ran back to the car and opened the driver's door and slid into the seat. His father's eyes were closed and he was pale and unnaturally still. Glancing into the back seat, he could see Sammy, looking very afraid and chewing his nails, a habit John had never been able to break him of. Dean reached back and gripped his younger brother's arm and he smiled as brightly as he could.

"Dad's going to be okay, Sammy; I promise." He put as much certainty as he could muster into his voice. It must have been enough, because his little brother relaxed his posture a bit and gave Dean a watery smile and a slight nod.

He started the engine and very carefully began to back the large car away from the front of the cabin and past the bushes on either side. When he reached a spot where it opened out on both sides, he began to execute a three-point turn. Dean had no idea that his gaze was so focused it could have lasered a hole through solid steel, but he was aware of the death grip he had on the wheel. It only tightened more when a momentary loss of concentration--John groaned at a series of jolts from bumps on the dirt road--caused the powerful car to swerve and almost head over an embankment. Sammy squeaked slightly but then remained silent, as if the younger boy apparently realized he had to make sure he didn't distract Dean himself, if he didn't want a repeat performance.

By the time Dean reached the clinic, part of him was sure they would need a tire iron to pry his hands from the steering wheel, but his fear for his father turned out to be the only motivation he needed, and he shoved the heavy door open and ran into the emergency room. Moments later, clinic personnel was hurrying out to the Impala and lifting the unconscious John onto a stretcher.

Dean watched them race back inside the clinic with their patient, then he opened the rear door and beckoned for Sam to come out. Sam didn't move and Dean leaned in to touch the younger boy's shoulder. When his brother looked up at him, Dean could see the tracks of tears on his cheeks and the fear in his eyes. Dean pulled the unresisting boy out of the car, making soothing noises and murmuring, "It's okay, Sammy. Dad'll be okay."

He slung an arm around his little brother's shoulders, feeling the tremors that shook Sammy's body, and guided Sam into the clinic waiting room and onto a chair. He patted the nine-year old's arm and smiled as confidently as he could, knowing that he had to stay calm--at least on the outside--to keep Sammy from freaking out.

It didn't matter that all _he_ wanted to do was curl into a little ball and cry his eyes out. Hell of a birthday _this_ was going to be.

A nurse with a clipboard stopped next to them and gave them a bright, cheery smile. "So," she said, "do you know what happened to your father?"

Dean slapped on his most sincere expression. "Yes, ma'am," he said politely, "we were staying in a cabin up on the mountain. Daddy"--she didn't have to know that he hadn't called their father 'Daddy' since he was seven; he knew saying it tended to make people more inclined to help him--"said all city kids should get to spend some time in the woods, see what it's like to someplace without sidewalks." He deliberately tinged his words with anger and fear. "Well, I don't like places without sidewalks! My Dad never got attacked by some animal in the city!"

Her expression became even more sympathetic. "I know," she said soothingly, "It's been a very bad experience for you and your brother." She hesitated, then added, "Is there someone we can call? Your father might be here for some time and we can't the two of you go back to that cabin. Or drive the car again." This time, her voice held a reproving note.

Dean felt a momentary panic. He'd seen this happen before and he knew the next thing she would say would be something about calling Child Services. If those people ever got hold of him and Sammy, Dad might never get them back.

This time, there was no faking the fear in his voice. "It's okay. Our uncle Jim, he's a pastor," Dean added, knowing it would carry a lot of weight, "lives only a few hours from here. I can call him. _Please_," he said desperately. Sammy, ever quick on the uptake, turned the full force of his puppy dog gaze on the nurse.

She patted Dean's shoulder. "Of course, you can. If you two come with me, I'll get you a phone."

It was the wee hours of the morning in Blue Earth as well, and Jim Murphy sounded groggy with sleep when he answered the phone. His tone sharpened and he sounded totally alert when he realized who it was. "Dean? Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean swallowed convulsively a few times, not wanting Pastor Jim to hear the tremble--or the fear--in his voice. "Pastor Jim, we need help. Dad's been hurt bad and we're at a clinic near the cabin we were staying in. But I know what's going to happen. They'll see Sammy and me and I won't have anyone to tell them will be taking care of us while Dad's in the hospital and they're going to send Social Services and take us away from Dad!" To his horror, he realized there was a hysterical note in his voice and he had to struggle to keep tears from spilling down his cheeks. "Can you come? We're only about four hours away, and I told them you're our uncle and a pastor, and that I'm calling you to come and they, they won't take us away!"

Pastor Jim pretended he had not heard Dean's loss of control--and Dean was grateful his dad had not been there--and he said soothingly, "Of course I'll come. Where are you boys exactly?"

Dean could have cried with relief but he kept his emotions in check, though it took considerable effort. He told Pastor Jim the name of the town with the clinic and how to get there. Now that he was older, he did a lot of the navigating, having been promoted from the back seat to the shotgun position. He could give Jim precise directions to their location.

After getting Pastor Jim's assurance that as soon as he made a couple of calls to let some people know he would be gone for a week or so and to arrange for someone to cover services on Sunday, Dean hung up and smiled reassuringly at Sam. "Pastor Jim is coming, Sammy. Everything's going to be all right."

Sam nodded tearfully and grabbed Dean's hand, holding on with a death grip. Dean knew it had only been a year since Sam had learned what it was their father _really_ did. It seemed to Dean that Sammy had been scared ever since, worrying about what might be hiding in dark corners and whether their father would survive each hunt. Dean stifled a sigh, knowing this sure as hell--_uh, sorry, Dad_--heck would not help things any.

By the time Pastor Jim arrived, Sam had finally fallen asleep and Dean had been worn to a frazzle. No one would talk to him about Dad--he was just a little kid after all, right?--they would just pat his head as if he were some kind of dog and smile and say, "Do you worry, sweetie. Everything's just fine." It took all of the discipline inculcated by John Winchester not to respond with, "If everything were fine, I'd be back at the cabin and my Dad wouldn't have a hole in his stomach and my brother wouldn't have cried himself to fucking sleep, bitch!" 'Cause if he had, Dad would later whack him on the back of his head and make him run laps 'til "the cows came home."

Dean had always wondered where the stupid cows had been in the first place.

Jim Murphy took charge immediately. He gave Dean a warm smile and gripped his shoulder. "Don't worry, sport; I'll handle everything," he whispered. Normally, Dean would bristle at a suggestion he wasn't capable of taking care of his family himself. But Pastor Jim had always had a way of defusing Dean's prickliness with a gentle smile, and it worked now, too. Dean just slumped in his chair and gave Jim a slightly wavering smile and a nod. He had then watched as the pastor soon had everyone rushing to get him information.

Sammy stirred slightly and blinked his eyes groggily. Dean ruffled his little brother's already messy mop of hair and said quietly, "Pastor Jim's here. Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep."

Sam nodded, then he frowned. "What's today, Dean?"

"Um, the 23rd. No, wait, it's the 24th."

"Thought so. "Happy birthday, Dean," Sammy said with a wide yawn.

Dean blinked. He had totally forgotten that it had gone past midnight hours ago. He sighed and rubbed his face. All those kids out there, they all thought birthdays were so great, with tons of presents and cake and ice cream and everything. They didn't know what it was like to find out your birthday present was a father with a hole in his stomach and the fear that you and your little brother would end up orphans. And how would he protect Sammy then?

The truth was, birthdays sucked. And you were lucky if they passed by with a whimper and not a bang.

**A/N**: One more chapter to go, the later years. How we doing so far?


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing--definitely not Teh Pretty--and I make nothing.

**A/N**: This is the last chapter (which is probably a good thing. How many miserable birthdays can Dean stand? Hee) and it really does end happily!

* * *

_**January 24, 2000**_

When Dean turned twenty-one, he found himself in the middle of a war zone.

Years ago, Dad had been hunting a dybbuk and had gone for help to an elderly rabbi, Simon Pinchuk. The Winchesters had arrived at the rabbi's door on the first night of Passover, and the rabbi and his wife had invited the wayfarers in. Dean had long since lost any belief in a God who didn't seem to give a damn about the evil in the world, but he had, to his surprise, been touched by the quiet, gentle faith of their elderly hosts. He remembered one part of the Seder, where the question "Why is this night different from other nights?" had been asked.

The book the rabbi had been reading from had given several responses to that question, but Dean knew that the _real_ answer was: "It _ain't_."

At least, not if his birthday was held up as the example. There had been no cessation of hostilities in World War II-1/2's primary theater of operations, also known as the Winchester household. Tempers flared, voices roared, doors slammed, just as they had virtually every day for the last two years.

Dad and Sammy ("No, it's _Sam_. What's so hard about that to remember, Dean? You remember everything _Dad_ tells you!"). _Sam_ and Dad. Two bull elephants, trumpeting, puffing themselves up in intimidations displays, charging, locking trunks.

Totally unconcerned about what got trampled in between.

His father and his brother. Both demanders, wanters, takers. The apple sure hadn't fallen far from the tree, _Sammy_.

He never bothered asking for anything or had any expectations, not anymore. He'd learned long ago they didn't matter. That was usually okay: He loved his father and brother ferociously.

Well, most of the time, anyway.

He didn't resent it, because holding the family together had been his job since he was five and that was okay, too. It was just sometimes he wished they would remember there were _three_ people in the Winchester family. Not just Dad, Sam and, oh yeah, the rope they used to play tug-of-war with, each tugger demanding the rope be on _their_ side and getting pissed with it, _him_, when he wanted to stay in the middle and try to pull the other two together.

And it didn't mean he didn't wish that sometimes, just sometimes, he wasn't so damn _invisible_. Was it too much to expect to be remembered on his fucking birthday? To hope that maybe they could call a halt to the daily skirmishes to wish him many happy returns of the day? Or some such shit?

Sometimes, he wondered if they would care if he left. Hell, they probably wouldn't even _notice_. At least, not until dinner. He wouldn't be winning any prizes for his cooking, but Dad could barely open a can and Sam was more interesting in sneering at the food than eating it. Yeah, okay, maybe they ran close to the edge and what went on the table was off the shelf stuff or take out, but it wasn't as if Sammy had ever gone hungry, or anything. _He_ had, and Dad, but never Sam.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly bone-deep, unutterably weary. Sometimes, Sam _needed_ to be able to do things that weren't about the hunt. Why couldn't Dad understand that? Hunting _saved_ lives, helped people, kept the darkness at bay. Why didn't Sam understand _that_?

And why couldn't either of them understand that Dean needed both his family and his purpose? They were both busy ripping the former apart, and undermining the second, each in their own way: Dad, Dean thought, would drop an ordinary hunt in a second if he got a whiff of the trail of whatever had killed Mom. And Sammy, he just sneered at hunting and hunters as a bunch of freaks who were doing this because they couldn't make it in the real world.

Well, thanks a _lot_, little brother.

He hefted his second beer. _Here's to you, Invisible-And-Unable-To-Make-It-In-The-Real-World Boy. May you have many more birthdays as joyous as this one._

Birthdays suck.

Families, too.

* * *

_**January 24, 2005**_

When Dean turned twenty-six, loneliness had already become a major component of his life. Once Sam was no longer there, the baby of the family to be protected, Dad had decided pretty quickly Dean could start hunting on his own.

"We can take out more of the evil sons-of-bitches this way, Dean," Dad had said casually, without a hint of worry about Dean's safety showing, or any indication he would miss his elder son's company.

Gradually, the frequency _and_ the difficulty of the solo hunts had increased. Dad's messages--if you could call them that--had become terse directions. His father seemed to be retreating into himself, drifting away and it worried Dean. Okay, if he were being honest, it scared the hell out of him.

At least, though, John had called to wish him a happy birthday. Granted, the call had come _yesterday,_ but, hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

Sammy, on the other hand, kept his perfect record intact. His younger brother had never called or emailed or text-messaged an acknowledgment of Dean's birthday since Sam had left for Stanford. The bitch was at least consistent: he hadn't called, emailed or text-messaged his older brother about _anything_ since he'd gone. Dean had tried at first, leaving messages on Sam's cell phone but getting no replies. He'd kept trying longer than his pride was comfortable with, but the emptiness pushed him on, until at last heh could no longer blind himself to the truth.

Sammy was gone. Not just in another state. Not just at school. _Gone_. His little brother had cut his ties with his family, just like that. Like it was nothing. Yeah, Dad and Sam had said some really brutal things in that last fight, but it's not as if _he_ had told Sam never to come back. He'd driven after his brother, who was stomping in the rain toward the bus station and had driven Sam there, slipping all the free cash he had into Sam's duffel. In return, Sam had not said a word and stormed out of the Impala and into the station and his new life, without a goodbye or a backward glance.

As if his brother was an old possession being discarded for something shiny and new. And who says goodbye to the trash?

For a moment, a pain so huge he almost could not breathe seared through him. To his horror, there was a stinging in his eyes and he angrily brushed at them. No way he was going to cry like some girl!

In his life, he had had only two needs: Saving lives and keeping his family together. And three things he loved: His father, his brother and his baby. Somehow, he knew, deep down, the Impala would be the only one of them not to abandon him. His family just didn't need him the way he needed them.

Dean stared at his cell phone, willing it to ring, desperately hoping Sam had found, suddenly, that he missed his older brother. But the phone stayed silent, as it had for the two years before this.

Surprise, surprise. Birthdays _still_ suck, and he wasn't too fond of little brothers right now, either.

* * *

_**January 24, 2006**_

When Dean turned twenty-seven, he woke up to the sound of his brother crying. More accurately, to the sound of his brother trying to hide the fact that he was crying. Sam was curled up in his bed, his face to the wall, his sobs muffled by the pillow he was snuffling into. Still, years of skinned knees and broken toys had taught Dean _exactly_ what his brother-while-trying-to-pretend-he-wasn't-crying sounded like and, yes, _this_ was what it sounded like.

Dean debated whether he should acknowledge Sam's tears or pretend he was still asleep. Not that he was worried about a "chick flick moment"; that prohibition only really applied to _him_. Wasn't going to get him to start spilling his guts like some emo bitch, no sir. He just wasn't sure Sam would want to know Dean had heard him. On the other hand, Dean was discovering that his brother's crying could shake him up the same way it did when he was six and Sammy was two.

Thing is, he had been waking on eggshells around Sam since they had left Stanford. Between over three years of non-communication and Sam's seeming contentedness at cutting all ties with his family, and Jessica's death, Dean had been handling Sam the same way he would have handled a vial of nitro.

With a sigh, Dean flipped the blanket toward the wall and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Silently, he padded over to the other bed and sat down carefully. Sam ducked his head slightly but didn't turn around. Dean placed a hand gently on his younger brother's shoulder.

"Hey, Sasquatch, bad dream?"

After a minute, Sam shook his head. Dean wracked his brain for other suggestions--other than the obvious one, that is. He would cut his tongue out before mentioning Jessica's name. Not when Sam still flinched at practically every word that began with a "J."

"C'mon," he said softly. "Give me a clue, dude."

A minute broken only by hiccupping sobs passed, then Sam whispered, "Birthday."

_What the fuck? I'm only a year older, not dying or anything!_

Then Sam said brokenly, "Today would have been Jess' twenty-second birthday."

_Aw, shit!_

His first reaction was how unfair it was for Sam, to have Jess' birthday come up so soon after her death. It must hurt like hell. For him, the way past this kind of pain would be to throw himself into another hunt, to shut it down and push it back behind his walls. He knew this wasn't the Sam he had known before Stanford, there had been changes, but he suspected Sam still was not a "lock your grief away and just move on" kind of guy. The hunt, though, might work as a distraction and he determined to find one for them today, if he had to go through every site on the Internet.

His second reaction was less noble and he hated himself for it, but he couldn't seem to get it to shut up. _Well, gee, isn't that just great? I thought this year, Sammy being back and all, maybe we would celebrate my birthday, just a little. You know, a cupcake with a candle or something. But this means I'll never really be able to celebrate my birthday again, not without hurting Sam. Then, again, why doesn't this surprise me?_

He kept his hand on Sam's shoulder, rubbing back and forth slowly and gently. Gradually, he felt the shaking subside; he knew the moment Sam drifted off into a troubled sleep. He sighed.

Finding out you share your birthday with your little brother's recently murdered girlfriend just _sucked_.

* * *

_**January 24, 2009**_

When Dean turned thirty, he _turned_ thirty. He wasn't dead and he wasn't burning in Hell. Sam, the jerk, had tapped into his demonically-tainted powers and forced the holder of the contract to break the deal. Then Dean had honored his promise to Sam that if it was the last thing he did, he would save him (he had tossed the promise to kill Sam into the nearest trash bin) and found a ritual that would cleanse Sam, not only of the darkness, but of the powers themselves. It had taken a while but the day _his_ Sam came back to him, had been the best day of his life.

No demons wanted Sam to lead them anymore and none of them wanted him dead before he _could_ lead the other faction. But Lilith was still out there and the demon incursion was still going on full force. The Winchesters had every intention of being in the forefront of the fight to end, once and for all, the events that had been put into motion on November 2, 1983.

This morning Dean had awakened to see an honest-to-God birthday cake with thirty candles burning on it. Okay, they had turned out to be the ones that you can't blow out no matter how many colors your face turns--the oversized bastard was going to pay for that, once he stopped rolling around on the floor laughing hysterically--but his birthday gift had been a subscription to "Muscle Cars", with the issues to be sent to Bobby's address--and Bobby had damn will better not get drool on the centerfold!--and an "invitation" to a super-duper (if totally free) birthday meal at Bickerson's. That rabbit's foot hadn't been _all_ bad.

Yep, truth was, more often than not, little brothers _didn't_ suck. And birthdays?

They were the first days of the rest of your life.

**A/N**: Things are finally looking up for Dean. Yay! Please let me know what you thought.


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